A Great Start
by Connell
Summary: Ryan and his life before Newport. Set during the school year prior to his original arrest. Rated R, because it should be.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: The OC and its characters belong to Schwartz & Co.

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Chapter One 

So, exactly how had things gotten this fucked up? In one sense, the answer is easy. Mom has a new boyfriend. One that doesn't mind the drinking and the drama. One that is as much of a drunk as she is. More even. A complete ass. It's disappointing, but not entirely unexpected. I'm still reeling from her breakup with her last boyfriend. A genuinely good guy. He'd been nice to Trey and me. He'd never hit us, he had a job, there was always food in the house, the electricity and the phone had been paid, he'd even offered me a job last summer. But, he'd been too good for Mom. Too good for us. I should have known he'd never last in our lives. Nothing good ever did.

And so here I am. At school at 7:30 in the morning. In the cafeteria with all the fat girls and losers. Because, c'mon, who doesn't have enough money for a box of generic "froot puffs" in the morning? Who can't get by on what's in the house for breakfast? Well, besides me, that is.

For the first time since I started school and qualified for the "Great Start" program, I'm using it. With AJ in the house, there's never any food and the free lunch I get from school doesn't fill my stomach for 24 hours. So, here I am, swiping my card through, verifying that I'm amongst the poorest of the poor. What a fucking loser. Never mind the black eyes and split lips that have become part of my daily life, this is about as low as you can stoop. Eating breakfast on the county's dime cause your mom's too fucked up to keep a box of fucking Cheerios in the house. So fucking low that I can't even meet the cafeteria lady's eye when she's verifying that my family is so fucking broke I can't afford a fucking poptart before school.

At least Theresa'd let me fuck her last night. I'd long ago started marking when she gets her period. She's regular, every 28 days, and I know that if I proposition her a few days before or right after she bleeds, she'll let me do her without a condom. She can be clingy, she can be annoying, but at least she isn't going to get pregnant from me. She's put the brakes on the fun many a time when the timing isn't right. Oh, I know it's not exactly safe sex. Nothing's foolproof and she messes around with other guys plenty, but I trust her when she says that I'm the only one that doesn't have to wrap it before sticking her. And she's the only one I trust to screw without a condom. So, I guess we're safe enough.

Last night I'd knocked on her window and we'd done it in the back seat of Arturo's car. I'd left immediately afterward and she'd been pissed. She wanted me to stay. She wanted to talk. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. She'd thrown something at me. A battery that had been on the floor of the car. Struck me in the back of the head. I still have the knot. But, I know she'd let me fuck her again tonight if I want to. She's never said "no."

Maybe I should have stayed and talked to her. Maybe that way I would have avoided what happened when I got home. What the hell was I thinking? Trey told me to leave it all alone and I couldn't. I heard AJ smacking her around and I couldn't just let it be, even though she's the one who brought him into our lives, into our house, invited him to stay, to eat our food…all of our fucking food all of the fucking time…. I went in there. Into her bedroom. She was in a tee-shirt and shorts. Blood was dripping off of her face, down her shirt, on her legs. How could she let him fucking beat her like that and not throw his sorry ass to the curb?

Yet, she defended him when I went in there. I was all about throwing him out. All about calling the police and enduring another night of those obtrusive motherfuckers as they rifled through our house and looked down their snouts at us. But she pleaded with him…pleaded with him! To forgive her. Like she had done something wrong! Fuck her. Fuck him. I'd gotten my ass kicked. My cheek is an angry mess of throbbing pain. My bottom lip is split. My eye is starting to bruise. I'm just waiting for a teacher or a counselor to call me in. How the fuck am I supposed to explain this away? A fight? That's what I always say, but sooner or later, they're going to send someone to the house. There'll be social workers involved. I might even be taken away. And that sucks, because I haven't done anything wrong and because she promised. She swore on her life when we moved from Fresno.

Fresno. Her infamous free-fall. After dad was sentenced, she'd gone on quite the bender. She'd disappeared for over a week. And Trey tried to hold it together for us. He really tried. And we'd almost made it, but she just kept…not…coming…back…and eventually someone was going to notice and eventually someone did. And social services showed up and it took her four fucking months to get her act together enough to get us back. Brutal fucking foster care where that asshole beat me senseless and where Trey—I don't know what happened to Trey in foster care, but he came back different. There was an edge, a meanness to him that had never been there before. We'd been getting smacked around pretty regularly since—well since forever—so it had to be more than getting his ass kicked. Especially for Trey. Trey was always one tough motherfucker, even when he was little. Not even Dad could always make him cry. Dad could always make me cry. Every time. Didn't even have to hit me to make me cry. Maybe still can.

But, I try not to let myself think too much about Trey. I don't really want to know what happened to him in those months that we were apart. What made him come back just so totally different. We fake it. We try to pretend that things are the same as before he left. But they aren't. And he resents me for it. He's never said anything. But I can tell. It's there. Just there in the air around us. The tension between us where there'd never been tension before. My brother is gone and he isn't coming back. Trey's still around, but he isn't my brother anymore. Not really.

And Mom, oblivious to it all. She swore on her fucking life that things would be better and she'd be there for us and she's a fucking liar. And AJ's a fucking asshole. And since I'm 16, this is my fucking life. I go back to that fucking house every fucking night where he fucking beats me and she fucking lets him and we have no fucking food and that's why I'm at school at 7:30 in the fucking morning eating fucking corn flakes with a bunch of fucking fatties and other fucking losers just like me.

And fuck Dad. Seriously, fuck him for doing something so supremely stupid as knocking off a convenience store with a gun. I mean c'mon how fucking cliché. Use your imagination, Atwood. The least you coulda' done is make it a good story. But, at least when he was around—at least what? I don't know. Life wasn't much better. Wasn't really better at all if I'm honest with myself. But, at least it was Dad kicking my ass. Somehow it's different. Because somehow I could tell myself—fool myself?—who the fuck knows…but I do it anyway. I could tell myself that despite the anger and the words and the fists, he's my dad and since he's my dad, he loves me. It's a rule, right? Dads love their kids, even if they don't show it hardly at all.

But this is life, not math. So maybe there's no rule. I wish life could be like math. You follow the rules, you don't make mistakes and you get an answer. It's as easy as that. There's an answer to every problem and if you just follow the formula you can solve it. But not life. Not my life. There are no formulas. I know. I've been trying to figure out the problem that is that asshole AJ for months now. And I can't solve it. I can't get him out of my mom's fucking life and I can't get him to leave me the fuck alone. I've tried being invisible. I've tried being reasonable. I've been good. I've been bad. I've been quiet. I've yelled. I've let him beat me senseless. I've fought back. And nothing fucking works. There is no fucking solution. He will not leave me alone or us alone and I fucking hate it. And I fucking hate him. And I fucking hate her for letting him. And I wish I could just stop caring that he's hurting her. But I can't. And I can't fix it. So, where does that leave me? Tired. More than tired. Exhausted. Frustrated. Furious. And while we're going with "F's" Fucked up. Because I am. Because Mom is. Because Dad is. Because Trey is. Because we all are.

So there's a solution for you: "Atwood Fucked Up." Now that's an easy one, but not exactly a secret, either.

"Hey, Ryan." I look up. It's Theresa. I glance at the clock on the wall. We're 5 minutes away from the first bell.

Hey." And because I feel I should. "Sorry about—about me leaving."

"S'okay, Ryan. I'm sorry I threw that battery at you."

"I'm sorry you hit me." I grimace and rub the back of my head. Theresa grins and I'm relieved that she's not still pissed at me. Because even though I know that she'll let me fuck her tonight, I don't want her pissed at me. I like Theresa. And she likes me. And there are so few people that like me right now. So few people that I like. So why fuck it up just because I'm angry and tired and fucked up?

So, what're you doing here so early?" She asks, looking around. I pack up my Trig book and put it back in my bag as I stand to take my tray to the trash.

"Just getting a great start."


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: The OC and its characters belong to Schwartz & Co.

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Chapter Two 

This is the last place I want to be. Sitting on the wall outside the strip mall, waiting on Trey. The liquor store's the only business that's still open. It's dark. And it has to be after 10:00 already, so he's late. But, Trey's always late. Reliability isn't exactly his greatest character trait. Not that he has many great character traits. Or any.

It wasn't always this way. He wasn't always this way. He used to look out for me. When we were kids. When I was always in his shadow. Always trying to do what he did. When I wanted to be just like him. And who wouldn't? Because he was smart. He was cool. He was tough. He was funny. He was all those things.

He would run interference for me. Not just with Mom. But, with Dad, too. And that was crazy. But he wasn't crazy. Not like now. He was just looking out for me. Because he could. Even though he was afraid. Because I was more afraid. He was my big brother. He was responsible for me. And I depended on him. And he liked that I depended on him. And I liked that I depended on him. And he never let me down. Not once. Not ever.

Then, suddenly, one day, he just wasn't. Only it wasn't suddenly. And it wasn't one day. Not really. But for me it was. Because when he left he'd been Trey. And when he came back, he wasn't Trey. Or the old Trey. Or the only Trey I knew. Only, it's been so long. This is the only Trey I know. And this Trey isn't smart. He isn't cool. He isn't tough. He isn't funny.

He still acts tough. He still acts cool. Does all the right things. Says all the right things. Has all the right mannerisms. Fools most of the people most of the time. Mom even. She doesn't have a fucking clue that something's different. She just thinks that smart and cool and tough and funny has turned to mean and dangerous and fucked up. But only because it's in his blood. Because he's an Atwood. But not because of something she's done. Or not done.

Because it's her fault. She's the one who couldn't keep it fucking together. Couldn't keep herself fucking together. But she's a fucking train wreck. And even though it's her fault, she couldn't handle it if she knew that she's the one who fucked him up. The one who killed him. Because she is. And because she did. And because he is. Dead. Even though he's still walking around. But he isn't. Not really. Because he isn't Trey. He's just—he's just the thing that Trey's become.

And it sucks. Because I miss him. I hate what he's become. I hate what we've become. I hate this. I hate that I'm sitting on this cold fucking wall at 10:00 at night waiting for fucking Trey to show up. Because he's going to want to do something fucking stupid. Or illegal. Or both. Because that's what Trey does. And I don't want to go with him. But I do. And I will.

Because there's no other way. Because I can't not go with him. Because I can't tell him that I know. Because I do. And because I don't. Because he's never said anything. And I've never asked. And I don't want to know. And at least if he hasn't said anything, I don't have to know. Even if I do. And I do. And he knows that I do. And it scares him. And it scares me. Because I'm the only one who knows. Even if I don't know. Even if he's never told me. Because it's there. It's this great big fucking pink neon elephant taking up the entire room. And we both ignore it. Even as we suck in our guts and press ourselves against the wall so as not to touch it. We just ignore it. Because if we ignore it, it'll go away. Even though it won't. And it won't. Because it hasn't. And it's been seven fucking years. And we ought to name the fucking elephant and start a college fund for it. Because it's not going anywhere.

And where the fuck is he? I just want to go home. But I won't. Because I told him I'd be here. And if I'm not—then it's just me, not trusting in him. Not wanting to walk in his shadow. Because I don't. I don't trust him and I don't want to walk in his shadow. But he can't know that. Even though he does. So I sit here freezing my ass off when I would have left long ago if I was waiting for anyone else. Even though I'd rather be waiting for anyone else.

Trey is so much like Dad. He's become so much like Dad. Mom thinks he was always like Dad. But he wasn't. But maybe Dad used to be like Trey. Not this Trey. The other Trey. Maybe he used to be smart and cool and tough and funny. Because he isn't. And he wasn't. And I've never known him to be. But maybe he was. Once. And I don't want to think about Dad. I don't want to think about Trey. But, I'm still waiting for Trey. I wish my mind could go blank. Like I think Trey's mind can go blank. But my mind doesn't work that way. So I can't…not…think about him.

Or about what happened. But not that. What happened after. After Mom came to get me. After she had to pick me up downtown because of what had happened. Because I was in a cast. Because my arm had been broken. And I'd had my ass kicked. And because I wouldn't talk about it. And Mom, acting all pissed off. Making a scene. Yelling at everyone. Like she had any right to be pissed off. And that pissed me off. It embarrassed me. And she just kept acting like that. And she took me home and made all sorts of bullshit promises.

How could she not fucking see it?! When they brought Trey home. How could she not see that he was broken? Or that he couldn't be fixed. Was it because there was no cast? Or was it because she didn't want to see it? Because I saw it. Because it was so fucking obvious that she couldn't have not seen it. But she didn't. Or she wouldn't. And that's not right. Because she's his mom. She should have done something. He needed her to do something. But she didn't. And I couldn't. And Trey is gone. And I still fucking miss him.

And here he is. Suddenly. Finally. So I get off the wall and I wait as he approaches. And I stuff my hands in my pockets because I'm fucking freezing.

"Hey, little bro."

"You're late."

"Yeah, well…" But he doesn't finish the thought. Instead, he leans closer. "AJ do all that?"

I don't really look at him. And I don't respond. Because I don't have to. Because he knows the answer. Because he was there. And he shouldn't have left. But he did. So he wasn't there for the crying and the yelling and the hitting and the blood. But he should have been.

"You got a smoke?" He reaches into his pocket and takes out a pack of cigarettes. He hands them to me. I extract the book of matches from the pack and I light a cigarette and inhale and keep the smoke in my lungs for as long as I can, till I have to exhale. And then I do. And I feel a little better. But not much. Trey's in no hurry. So he sits down, and puts his back to the wall. And I sit next to him. And we both draw our knees up in front of us. We both lean our heads back against the cinderblock. And Trey lights a cigarette. And in the brief flash of light from the match I notice that his lip is split.

"What happened to you?"

"I went by to see her." And I don't say that he should have stayed. Because he should have. But he knows he should have. And I briefly wonder if the elephant smokes. Because maybe I should offer the elephant a cigarette. Because it's here. Somehow. Impossibly stuffed into the small space between Trey and me. Even though our shoulders are almost touching. The fucking elephant is here. Because the fucking elephant is always here. And after a few seconds, Trey says. "AJ was there."

"AJ's always there." I glance at Trey out of the corner of my eye. Trey's looking down at his hand. And I let my eyes travel down to where he's looking. But it's dark. And I can't really see where he's looking, but he's holding his right hand funny. And I'm not positive, but I think I see a dark line running down the knuckle of his middle finger. And I'm not positive, but I think it's blood. And a small smile I didn't know was in me makes its way to my lips.

Trey's eyes travel to me. And he must see my smile. Because he flexes his hand. He winces. "I made sure I got in two good ones." And my smile grows a little. "Before he kicked my ass." And I actually laugh. And Trey continues. But he doesn't have to. Because I already know. But he says it anyway. "One for Mom and one for you."

And the elephant asks if he got a good one in for Trey. And I tell the elephant to fuck off, because I'm sitting here with my brother and there's no room for a fucking elephant. And I'm no longer cold. And I just want to sit here for a while. And so does Trey. And so we do.


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: The OC and its characters belong to Schwartz & Co.

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Chapter Three 

He's fucking insane and I don't know what he's on. I think it's meth. It's usually cocaine. But tonight he isn't acting like he's on cocaine. He's acting like he did the last time he used meth. But I don't know for sure. It could be anything. He's messed up on something and he won't stop banging on my door. Every few minutes, he's banging on my fucking door.

And I'm on my bed, staring at the door. I just want him to fucking stop and for it to fucking stop and for him to fucking leave me alone, but he just fucking…won't.

"Ryan! C'mon, you little punk. Let's go!"

Where's Mom? Seriously. She was there when this all started. She was the one who started all of this. Or maybe I did. Because of the whole coming to school late thing. And the whole weird conversation with Mr. Ficklin about the coming to school late thing. And the fighting. Because that's what I told him when he asked. When he asked me to explain the ass kicking by AJ. I made up a fight. With Trey. Who was wasted. At least in my version of events. And my recounting was a little sketchy. I was making it up as I went along. But he bought it. Because he knows Trey. And he knows how fucked up Trey is. And because I couldn't tell him about AJ. And because I had to tell him something.

But it's okay. Because it was suddenly all about Trey. And not at all about me. And the questions had nothing to do with me. Until he decided that maybe I was drunk. Even though I wasn't. Or not much.

"Ryan! Open the fucking door!"

OK, so maybe I was. Just a little. But only because the elephant took a sabbatical and Trey and I celebrated a little too enthusiastically. Not that either of us thought it was gone for good. And not that it was. Because it wasn't. It came back pretty fucking quickly. Because the fucking elephant must have really missed us. Even though we didn't miss it.

It scared me that I woke up after 7:30 on Trey's floor. Or the floor of the place where Trey was crashing. And that I don't remember every moment leading up to that time. Because that isn't me. It's Mom. It's Dad. It's Trey. But it isn't me. Or at least it wasn't me. Or isn't me, yet. Or me, ever. So I'm not drinking anymore for a good long time. Or ever. But I will. Just not anytime soon. And not very much then. Just enough to control it. To let it know that it doesn't control me. Like it controls Mom. And Dad. And Trey. But not me.

None of that stopped Mr. Ficklin from calling Mom. Or from telling her that I'd been late. Again. Or that he suspected that I was drunk. Which I wasn't. Or maybe only a little.

"Ryan!"

And now he's throwing himself at the door. And kicking it. And he's fucked up. Seriously fucked up. And I'm getting pretty fucking scared. Even though I'm sure the door will hold. Or I think it will hold. And thank you Trey for putting in the deadbolt. And thank you Mom for going through Trey's stuff. And for stealing Trey's money. And for confronting him with the weed you found in his sock drawer.

Because, the door is strong. And it's got the deadbolt. It isn't the original pressed-wood piece of shit that came with the house. Trey'd busted that down coming after me. When he thought I took his money. And his weed. And we had that little turn lock on the knob that did absolutely no good. And Trey had blood in his eyes and he'd wanted to kill me. He'd chased me through the house and I'd slammed the door to our room and locked it. And Trey'd kicked the door in. And it was only when he was standing in front of me, hands balled up in fists and I'd pleaded with him "Please, Trey, don't do this." That he didn't.

Mom'd gone all ape-shit on his ass when she saw what he did to the door. And I didn't deny it when Trey told her that we were goofing off when it happened. Even though we weren't. But it didn't matter. Because Mom pulled out the pot she'd found in Trey's sock drawer and the two of them started yelling at each other. And Mom was pounding him with the heels of her hands. And Trey was laughing. Because Trey was bigger than she was. Trey was 17. And she couldn't hurt him. Not like that. Not anymore.

So a couple weeks later, Trey'd taken away the old door. And he'd put in a new one. One with a deadbolt. One that wouldn't give easily. Oh, I'm sure it would give. But just not easily. And I thank Trey. Because without the door. Without the deadbolt, AJ would be in here. And I'd be—

I don't know what I'd be. Or if I'm going to find out. Because I might find out. Because I have to leave this room sometime. But I don't have to leave it tonight. Or I'm hoping that I won't have to leave it tonight. Even though I might. And I'm banking on the fact that once he comes down from whatever he's on, he won't continue the course he's on. Because if he does. I may just end up dead. Because I've never seen him so angry. And I've seen him angry. But, who knows with AJ. I just can't figure him out. I've tried. But I can't. I can't figure him out sober. I sure as shit can't figure him out wasted.

"Ryan!"

I hope he's at least bruising his shoulder if he isn't breaking something. Because he's really hurling himself at the door. And I wonder why he doesn't just come through the window. And if he does, I'm seriously fucked. Because I probably won't be able to get the key to turn before he gets to me. But he's so fucked up that I don't think he even remembers that there's a window. And where is Mom? Because she should at least be telling him to calm down. I mean, 'calm the fuck down AJ! That's my kid in there and this has nothing to do with you! And you've got your own fucking kids to worry about! So just leave my fucking kid alone!'

But she won't. Because she doesn't. Because she's never. Not for me. Or for Trey. Or for herself. And that fucking blows. Because she's my mom. And she deserves better. Or maybe she doesn't. I don't know. She's my mom, so of course she deserves better. But, really, just because she's my mom. And not because she deserves it.

"I am going to fuck you up!"

Maybe it's better that she isn't saying anything. Because if she says something. If she gets him pissed off in her direction. Well, then I'm going to have to go out there. I can't have him beating on her. I can't. Even though I can't stop it, I can't not try to stop it. I don't think he's done anything to her. Not yet. Because he's been pretty fucking focused on me. But if I don't hear something from her, I'm going to have to go out there anyway. Just to be sure. And I really don't want to. But, I'll have to.

"Ryan!"

And stop it already. Fucking stop it! Somebody make it fucking stop. Because I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be back to the wall at the end of my fucking bed scared out of my fucking mind. Scared out my fucking mind that some lunatic gone ape-shit is going to kill me. Some lunatic gone ape-shit that isn't even family. Some lunatic gone ape-shit who shouldn't even be in our lives. But is in our lives. Because he's shacked up with my mom. And now he's always around. Always. Like the fucking armchair on the front porch that's been there for a year, even though Mom says she's going to get rid of it just about every time she sees it.

And fuck you, Dad. Because AJ wouldn't be here if you hadn't robbed the fucking Circle-K—and if Mom hadn't lost it back in Fresno—and if Trey and I hadn't been taken away—

But, maybe AJ would be here. And maybe I'd be here. Or still in Fresno. And maybe it'd be you on the other side of the door. Maybe it'd be you wanting to kick my ass and to fucking kill me because I'd been late to school and just a little bit drunk.

I shoulda cut school today. After I woke up late. But I couldn't skip. Not really. Because they were already talking about suspending me again. I've missed too many days and I've gotten into too many fights. And it really wasn't that big of a fucking deal. I missed homeroom. Who gives a fuck that I missed the announcement about the theme to the winter dance or what play the fucking drama club was going to put on in the spring? I was there by the time first period started. I was there before Mr. Ramsey even.

And if Mr. Ficklin wasn't going to suspend me—or expel me—or even give me detention, then why the fuck did he call Mom? I mean, seriously. Why bring her into it? Especially since he knows her. From Trey. What exactly did he think she'd do? Besides get really pissed off.

Because she did. She got really pissed off. And fucking drunk. And I didn't come right home from school like I was going to. Like I should have. But it was only because I saw AJ's pickup in the yard. Because it's always in the yard. His big white fucking Ford pickup that's become a part of the landscape. Like the armchair on the front porch. Like the tire by the fence. Like AJ. Because he's always here. Always. And I just want him to fucking leave. But he won't.

"Dawn, I'm gonna kill this fucking kid. How do you not have a key to this fucking room?"

And so the asshole just answered the question for me. So I don't have to go out there. At least not yet. Hopefully not ever. Or at least not tonight.

If I'd known how fucked up he was, I'd have avoided this. Or tried to avoid this. But I didn't. Because I didn't. I'd been just standing there, waiting for Mom to end her tirade. Just standing there in the middle of the room. And Mom was waving her drink at me. Shouting about how I was going to make her lose her job. Like I'd asked Mr. Ficklin to fucking call her at work. Like I'd known Mr. Ficklin was going to call her at all. And she's yelling at me for being drunk at school. And I'm yelling back that I wasn't. And that I only smelled like beer since I'd spent the night on Trey's floor.

And I can see it. I can see it in her eyes. The second I say that I crashed at Trey's. She had no fucking clue that I didn't come home last night. And I call her on it. And she denies it. So I tell her that she's a bad liar. And AJ decides that's the perfect time to come out of her room. And he's loaded. But I don't know that. So when he asks me to apologize, I tell him to fuck off. He doesn't react immediately. So, I start to pass him to go to my room. And I'm so fucking pissed off that I let my shoulder slam into him on my way. And he suddenly snaps. He goes fucking ape-shit all over my ass. He grabs me and slams me into the ground. He's got his hand on the back of my head and he's pressing my face into the floor. I'm yelling for him to get the fuck off of me. Because I can't breathe. He's got his knee in my back and I can't fucking breathe.

And Mom says something. Which distracts him. Just a bit. Just enough. So I launch myself upwards and break his grip and sprint into the bedroom. Only because he's between the front door and me. Otherwise I'd have sprinted outside.

And now I'm stuck here. And he's still pounding on the fucking door. He's still shouting my name. And I just want him to stop. I just want him to go the fuck away. But he won't. Because she won't make him. And I can't make him. And this is my life. Another Thursday night. And it's so totally fucked up.


	4. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: The OC and its characters still belong to Schwartz & Co.

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Chapter Four 

Theresa and her mother are talking in rapid-fire Spanish in the other room. I'm sitting on her bed, shoes off, head on a couple of pillows that are propped up against her headboard, with my legs extended in front of me, waiting for her to come back with news of whether we're going to Trey's party. I don't particularly want to go. I don't want to go at all. But Theresa does. And I can't go home. Not yet. It's Friday night and things are always a little more fucked up at home on the weekends. With the drinking. And the drugs. And AJ's friends. Not that AJ's working. Or working much. And he could probably fit a Tuesday night to get coked up with his friends into his schedule just fine. But, I'm guessing his friends work. Or at least some of his friends do. Because when they show up, it's mostly on a Friday. At my house. Mom's house. Even though Mom works at the restaurant on Fridays. Even though Mom doesn't get home till close to midnight.

When I went by a little after 7:00, there were a couple cars parked out front and a guy I didn't recognize smoking on the porch. Even though everyone else smokes inside. Including AJ and Mom. Including me. So I didn't go home. Even though I wanted to. Even though I wanted to go in and tell them all to get the fuck out. Even though I still do. Or call the cops and have them raid the fucking place. But I don't. Because it's Mom's name on the lease. And if they raid the house, they'll find AJ's coke. And AJ's meth. And whatever other shit AJ and his friends have. And Mom can't get busted. Even though she probably should. And so I just thank Trey again for the bedroom door with the deadbolt. And I don't bother stopping my bike. And I don't go home.

I find Theresa, instead. Because I'm bored and I want to fool around. And I know she'll let me. Except, her mom's home. And Arturo's going to Trey's. So his car isn't going to be around. And we have to be careful about that anyway. Since Arturo will kill me—or us—if he finds us fucking in his car. Because it's his car. And it's his sister. Even if he knows that we're fucking. And he knows. But not about the car.

Theresa must have just hit a nerve, because her mom's voice suddenly rises an octave. And, although I didn't think it was possible just a minute ago, she's talking even faster. I hear Trey's name and my name and Arturo's. And it's jarring to hear the unaccented "Treys" and "Ryans" peppered throughout the conversation. And it makes me self-conscious. And curious. Especially since I hear a couple of "Atwoods." And I can only image that she's clumping Trey and me together to bring across some point. But, I don't know what the point is. Because, even though I can hear the two of them clearly enough, I haven't a clue what they're saying. And that doesn't bode well for my Spanish oral comprehensive that's coming up next week. But, maybe I'm okay. Since I'm pretty sure Theresa and her mom are talking about topics that haven't quite made it onto the Spanish I syllabus. And I'm pretty sure they're not discussing the "camisa blanca" or the "pantalons azul." And that is about the extent of my pathetic Spanish.

I'm pulling for Theresa's mom to win this one. Because she clearly doesn't want Theresa to go. And she shouldn't. And I hope she won't let her. Because I don't want to go. Because I'm tired. And because Trey's parties are dangerous. And even if Theresa's mom doesn't know that for certain, she ought to know it by intuition. Because she knows Trey. And she knows Arturo. And she knows the crowd they run with. And she knows that there will be drinking and drugs and probably guns at the party. And if she doesn't—well, she should.

And my eyelids are so fucking heavy. It's been such a long fucking week. And I'm so fucking tired that even my bones ache. So, I close my eyes briefly and just listen to the sound of Theresa and her mom arguing. And all I want to do is go to sleep. Or, better yet, fuck Theresa, then go to sleep. But neither of those appear to be an option right now. Or anytime soon. And in a less fucked up world, I'd be home. I'd be in my room. I'd already be in bed and watching television and waiting for sleep. But I'm not. Because there are a bunch of fucking strangers in my house. And I don't have the energy to deal with a bunch of fucking strangers. Especially since they're all probably wasted by now. Especially since AJ's probably wasted by now. And especially since AJ's still pissed off and looking for any excuse to rip my fucking head off.

Not that he needs an excuse. But, maybe he thinks Mom does. Even though I'm not so sure she does anymore. He'd barely reacted when I came out of my room this morning. After everything that happened last night, I was surprised they were even up. And I was surprised that he didn't have much of a reaction to seeing me. Because I expected him to come after me. But he didn't. Mom even looked a little embarrassed. Gave me a "hey, kiddo" and offered me coffee. And AJ told her to make it Irish. And then laughed at his own lame-assed joke. But Mom didn't look like she thought it was funny. And she suddenly decided that we weren't done talking about what happened at school yesterday. And her getting called at work. Like we'd even been talking. Like it wasn't just her waving her fucking drink around and yelling at me. Waving her fucking drink around and telling me how useless and stupid I am. And maybe if the fucking phone bill got paid, she wouldn't get called at work. And so I snapped. And I told her that we could have finished our talk last night if her fucking boyfriend hadn't tried to fucking kill me. And AJ's all "Hey, man." And you know what? "Fuck you, AJ." So I left. I grabbed my bike. And I pedaled the hell on out of there, with AJ yelling after me to get the fuck back.

So, I'm in no hurry to go home. And now I'm trying to think of some place Theresa and I can go and fool around if her mom won't let her go to Trey's. Because it sounds like her mom's not relenting. And Theresa's getting frustrated. I can tell by the tone of her voice, even if I can't understand the words she's saying. We could always stay here. But if we stay here, we won't be fooling around. Because her mom's home. And Theresa's bedroom door always has to be open. And her mom walks down the hallway in front of her room every two minutes, just to be sure nothing's going on. And she's always poking her head through the doorway, just to be extra sure.

And my house is out of the question. Has been ever since AJ became part of the furniture. And it's too cold outside. So, I briefly consider Arturo's workshop. And I quickly disregard the thought, since I can't imagine what Theresa would say to her mother, coming back into the house all covered in grease stains. And there's no conceivable way to fool around in Arturo's workshop without getting covered in grease. Even though I'm pretty sure that I can convince Theresa to fool around with me in the workshop. Even though Theresa doesn't take much convincing.

But, I suddenly decide that it doesn't matter. Because I'm not going to fuck Theresa tonight. Because I shouldn't. Even though I want to. Even though Theresa wants to. Because it would be twice in less than a week and that'd be sending the wrong message. Because Theresa wants more from me. And I can't give her more. Because I can't be her boyfriend. As much as she wants me to be her boyfriend. As much as she pretends that I am. I'm not. And I can't. And I've told her that. And she says she understands. But she doesn't. Not really. She doesn't understand that I'm too damn tired to be anyone's boyfriend. She doesn't understand that I'm too damn tired to be responsible for anyone else.

Because it's just too fucking much. With the drinking and the drugs and the yelling and the punching and the bruising and the bleeding and the crying and the everything that is my life right now. And because there's never any food in the fucking house. And the electricity's been cut off twice since AJ moved in. And the phone's been disconnected. And school's a fucking nightmare. And not just yesterday. All year it's been shitty. Because I'm too fucking tired to study. And I'm too fucking tired to pay attention. And I'm too fucking pissed off all the fucking time to just walk away when some jackass like Aldo fucking Fernandez gets in my face and says that he heard that Mom spent the night in jail after getting hauled out of his dad's bar. That she'd been drunk and threw a glass and got into a fight. Even if it's true. And I can't walk away when Aldo fucking Fernandez mutters "Classy lady, your mom."

So there's the fighting. And the suspension. And the piss poor grades. And Mom. And AJ. And Trey. And I can't be anyone's boyfriend right now. I just can't. So I won't fuck Theresa tonight. Because if I do, she'll ask about the winter dance again. Like I could give a fuck about the stupid dance. And how can she be so fucking clueless anyway? I thought she knew me better than just about anyone. But she doesn't know me at all. Because if she did, she wouldn't be begging me to take her to a dance. Because I don't dance. And because she wants to get dressed up. And she wants me to get dressed up. And she wants to go out to dinner. And I don't have two fucking quarters to rub together. And I couldn't even buy her a happy meal if my life fucking depended on it. And none of it matters, because I'm not her boyfriend. And I'm not taking her to the dance.

So all of this just adds up to me not getting laid tonight. Even though I could. By Theresa. Or by someone at Trey's party. Cathy Hennessey. Or Catarina. Or Maggie, even. And I'm still a little surprised that I have options. Since it wasn't always like this. It wasn't ever like this. Not before working construction last summer with Mom's boyfriend. The one before AJ. The boyfriend she couldn't keep. The boyfriend who'd made our lives tolerable for about 18 months. The boyfriend who'd given me my first couple of jobs. Go-fer at the construction site the summer before last and working real construction last summer. Kept me on, even after Mom and he broke up. After he broke up with Mom. And with all the lifting and the hauling, I'd actually put on some muscle. I was no longer the scrawny little shit I'd always been. And that opened up some doors. Or at least it opened up some legs.

And that's when Theresa—that's when she started being a just little bit clingy and just a little bit annoying. Because as near as I can figure, that's when it started being all about the boyfriend thing. After school started. When, suddenly, I could get laid. When, suddenly, I could get laid by girls who weren't Theresa. When, suddenly, I was getting laid by girls who weren't Theresa.

So maybe she's jealous. Even though it doesn't make much sense. Or any sense at all. Because why would she be jealous? Seriously. C'mon. Ryan fucking Atwood? My life is so fucked up. And she knows it. Because everyone knows it. Because it isn't exactly a secret. And because she should be looking to someone else to be her boyfriend. Someone who's not so fucking exhausted all the time. Someone who's not so fucked up.

"Hey, Ryan." I didn't even realized that Theresa and her mom had stopped arguing. I didn't hear her come back to the room.

"Hey." And it takes real effort to peel my eyelids off my eyeballs and to focus on Theresa. Because I'm just that fucking tired.

"You sleeping?"

"No. I just closed my eyes for a minute."

"You ready to go?"

"Yeah." I take in a deep breath. I exhale. I swing my legs off the bed and start to get up.

"Ryan, I'm kidding. You're too tired and my mom won't let me go, anyway. So, let's just hang out here, okay? My mom's already heating you up a plate—she decided you look hungry. We'll watch TV or something. You can even stay here on the couch tonight if you want. My mom thinks you should—and I think you should, too."

"Sounds good." I say. And it does. It sounds great. But, I'm still not her boyfriend. And, I'm still not taking her to the stupid dance.


	5. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply about me and "The OC" and our one-sided relationship where I own nothing and it owns me.

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**Chapter Five**

"You can't keep doing this, Ryan." Mom's pissed off. She waves her cigarette at me. At least it isn't a drink. At least she isn't drunk. She's working this afternoon. Not that she never has a drink or two before starting her shift. She often has a "pick me up" before leaving the house. It's only a matter of time before they smell it on her. It's only a matter of time before she gets fired. Again.

I look past her left ear. Focus on the crucifix on the wall and wait for her to stop yelling. The crucifix. It's been on a wall of every house or apartment I've called home for as long as I can remember. Except for the time in foster care. Not that I'd ever considered that home. That was just doing time. My own personal jail stint after Dad got arrested. With a fucking ape of a warden. A fucking ape of a warden who wasn't even supposed to be there.

The prick had put another kid in the hospital a few years earlier and Janey'd only just gotten back on the foster care list right before we'd been taken from Mom. If you could call it being taken from Mom. Considering Mom wasn't there. And considering that that's why we'd been taken. But Janey'd signed something that said she'd broken up with Ted. That he was no longer around. That she had an active restraining order and no contact. So she made it onto the emergency care short-term list. She was allowed to keep kids for up to 60 days. Kids from families so fucked up they were picked up in the middle of the night. And she was allowed to keep those kids for up to 60 days. Even though I was there for four months. Even though Ted was there for four months, too.

"You can't keep staying out all night. You have to let us know where you are." Us? Who the fuck is 'us,' Mom? You and who else? AJ? Fucking AJ?

I keep my eyes on the crucifix. It's always the first thing she puts up when we move. The first thing she packs when we leave. It's become a symbol of home. A figure who is beaten, tortured and dying. And it's somehow become synonymous with home. How fucking depressing. I'm not even sure why Mom's so attached to the thing. It's not like we even go to church anymore. It's not like she goes. She hasn't since we moved from Fresno. Not since Dad got arrested. And it's Dad's anyway. She hasn't kept anything else of Dad's. So why keep the crucifix? And why hang it up each time we move? Why carefully pack it away each time we leave?

Maybe she doesn't even know why she does it. Or maybe there's some kind of pathological psychological bullshit behind it. A subconscious reminder of where Dad is. A symbol of his suffering or some crap like that. And if she's doing it on purpose—well, I don't give a shit. I don't. If he's stupid enough to rob a fucking convenience store. If he's stupid enough to point a loaded gun at some lady. Some mother with two little kids to raise on her own. Some lady who was just trying to scratch out a living. To make her fear for her life. To make her think that just maybe this is the day she's going to die and leave her kids motherless—for what? For a minimum wage job. For shitty hours. For $32 and change. Fuck him. I mean, seriously. Fuck him! He's right where he belongs.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that Mom's waiting for an answer. "You were at work. We have no phone and I'm not allowed to call you at the restaurant. How—exactly—was I supposed to let you know?"

"You could have let AJ know."

I let my silence and my look tell her that where I am is none of AJ's fucking business. But, she's so fucking oblivious, she doesn't even get it. She doesn't get how totally fucked up it is that she even suggested it.

Instead, she just confirms her fucked up line of thought. "You should have let AJ know, Ryan. You should have cleared it with him."

"Cleared it. You wanted me to clear it with fucking AJ?"

"Ryan." And she's got this way of saying my name. This way of saying my name that makes it sounds like an accusation.

"AJ's still looking to kick my ass, Mom. I'm not coming in here when he's all coked up and surrounded by those assholes he hangs out with."

"Where were you last night?"

"Theresa's."

"You spent the night with your girlfriend?" Fuck. I should have said that I crashed at Arturo's. I should have said that I crashed at Trey's. I should have made up a name. What the fuck is wrong with me? My mind isn't thinking like it should. I'm too fucking tired for my brain to be working like it should.

"She's not my girlfriend."

"That's so not the point, Ryan."

"Nothing happened. I spent the night on the couch. You can ask her mom. She was home."

"I will."

"Good."

I can't help but think how fucked up all of this is. How seriously fucked up it is. She's pissed off at me because I spent the night at Theresa's. Where I'd been given a hot meal. Where I'd been given a couch, a pillow and a blanket. Where I was safe. And she's pissed off because I didn't come home last night to a house full of fucking strangers who were drunk and strung out on fucking coke. And fucking meth. And whatever other shit they were using last night. And these fucking coked-up strangers were hanging out with her fucking boyfriend. Her fucking boyfriend, who just so happens to want to rip my fucking head off. I was completely safe at Theresa's. But she wanted me here. Where I would not have been safe. How fucked up is that? And what's even more fucked up is that she doesn't see it. That I can never make her see it. So I don't even try.

"Where is he, anyway?" Because as forceful a presence he in the house, his absence is also palpable. A big black hole. No truck in the yard. No AJ on the chair in front of the TV. It's like the crucifix has been ripped from the wall. Because, lately, it's just not home without him. And that's fucked up in more ways than I can even explain. In more ways than I'd ever want to explain.

"Who—AJ? He's got business." She finally gets around to lighting the cigarette. It takes her three or four times to get a flame from the lighter. I'm tempted to ask her for a cigarette, but even I know that this isn't the time. She'll rip me a new one for smoking. Not that she minds that I smoke. In a better mood, she'd offer me a cigarette herself.

"AJ's got business?" I can't keep the skepticism out of my voice. I don't even try.

"He's got a thing."

"A _thing_."

As she waves her cigarette around in an ambiguous gesture, I half allow myself to hope that AJ took off. That, despite our earlier conversation, she has no fucking clue where he is. That he ditched her sorry ass. That he's not coming back. But that dream barely takes wing before it comes crashing down with her next breath. "He'll be back a little later. He just had to take care of some stuff."

Because, why would he leave? Why would he move out, when he's got everything he needs right here? Why would he leave when he can keep freeloading off my mom? When she gives him everything he needs. Everything he wants. And she takes him back into her bed after taking the back of his hand. Time and time again.

"This thing—is it with his dealer?"

"Ryan." There's a warning in her voice that I ignore.

"His kids?"

She takes a big drag off the cigarette and I know I've hit a nerve. I know that I should leave it alone. But I can't. I deliberately cross the line.

"Is it with his wife, Mom?" Suddenly, my cheek stings from where she slaps me. I don't expect it. Even though I should. And there's the metallic taste of blood in my mouth, even though she didn't break the skin. Even though it's just a slap.

"You've got a smart mouth, Ryan." And, apparently, it's the only thing I've got smart these days. Because, I'm doing stupid stuff. Really stupid stuff. Like fucked up stupid stuff. Like going to school hung over and maybe still a little bit half drunk. Like blowing off school work. And blowing off school. Like challenging AJ when I know he can kick my ass and is looking for any excuse to do so. Like letting Theresa give me a blow job on the couch last night after her mom went to sleep. Even though we both knew she could come out of her bedroom at any time. That it would be just like her to make sure that we weren't doing anything. Even though we were. And even though I'd promised myself that nothing would happen.

"You've got a smart fucking mouth, Ryan." She repeats as she takes another drag on the cigarette. Flicks the ashes into a coffee cup on the counter. Waits for me to say I'm sorry. But I don't. I won't. I'm not. About this one thing, I'll never be sorry. I'll never apologize when it comes to AJ. Because I'm not wrong. He's a big, vile, useless piece of shit. And I won't apologize for him. Or for what I think of him. Not that I have to. Mom's got that covered. She apologizes for him all the fucking time. She makes excuses for him all the fucking time. About him hitting her. About him hitting us. And that's bullshit. Even if she can't see it. It's bullshit, anyway.

So, I'm not going to apologize for mentioning his wife. I'm not going to apologize for mentioning his kids. Because he's married. And he's got two little kids. And because not mentioning them doesn't make them not real. Ignoring them doesn't make them cease to be. And he really should be at his own fucking house, beating the crap out of his own fucking wife and beating the crap out of his own fucking kids.

But, not really. Because as soon as I think it, I know I don't mean it. Because his kids are little. And his wife is fragile. Or at least that's how she looked to me that one time she came by. When she was chasing down the rumor that wasn't just a rumor that he'd moved in with Mom. And she'd had the kids in tow. All three of them composed entirely of thin, angular limbs, dark hair and impossibly big eyes. And as much as Mom doesn't deserve an asshole like AJ in her life. As much as Trey and I don't deserve an asshole like AJ in our lives. Those little kids don't deserve him either. And just because he's their dad doesn't make them deserve him. Because nobody chooses their dad. He just is.

Or maybe she does deserve him. His wife. Because she chose him. Because she married him. Because she let him be the father of her kids. But, I don't let myself go too far down that path, because that would be admitting that Mom deserves it. Because she chose Dad. And because she's sleeping with AJ. And I won't go there.

Mom and I stand in hostile silence for several seconds. I know she's thinking about defending AJ. Or attacking me. I can see her fighting with herself. Her eyes dance as she considers what to say. Or what not to say. She pulls more smoke into her lungs while she decides. I'm tensed up. On edge. And I'm ready to bolt if she comes after me physically. But when she finally speaks, it's not what I expect.

"Will you see Trey today?"

"I dunno. Maybe—probably. He'll want to watch the football game."

"Is he coming over here?"

I lift a shoulder. "I doubt it."

"AJ doesn't want him around . . . if AJ finds him here…" She doesn't finish the sentence. Takes a final drag off the cigarette. Drops it into the cup. "Just tell Trey he shouldn't come by. He's not welcome here."

"So now AJ's making the rules?" I ask the question, even though I know the answer. AJ's been making the rules ever since his fucking shadow crossed our fucking threshold.

"AJ lives here. Trey doesn't."

"Trey's your kid. And AJ doesn't even pay rent."

"You don't pay rent, either, Ryan. I do. I'm the one that works. So, I'm the one who makes the rules. And I don't want Trey coming around here. Not anymore. Not after what happened the other night. Not after he attacked AJ."

"Trey didn't do anything wrong, Mom. He was defending you. He was defending me. AJ's the one who was out of line."

And I know and she knows that Trey wasn't defending either of us. That should have happened the night before. The night before, when he'd left. When he knew AJ was beating on Mom. When he knew I was about to get into a fight I couldn't win.

But, he did come back later. He did land couple of punches. So that counts for something. Even though Trey would have defended us. Even though Trey would have taken a beating if it meant that Mom or I would be left alone. Because Trey would have. But not this Trey. Not the fucked up Trey.

"This isn't a conversation, Ryan. Just tell Trey that he shouldn't come home." She takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out. Gathers her things. She heads for the door and reconsiders. She turns. Adds. "You can tell him he can come by the restaurant if he needs anything. He just can't come here."


	6. Chapter Six

Usual disclaimers apply, because, like Angry!Ryan!, I'm just too damned tired to repeat 'em.

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Chapter Six 

It's Monday. It's lunchtime and I'm at a table in the cafeteria. I'm alone. Which really shouldn't be a goddamned surprise to anybody. Because I'm always alone these days. By choice. Or, at least I tell myself it's by choice. And it is. Well, mostly. Even though no one's offered to sit next to me. Even though I didn't exactly have to chase anyone away. Though maybe I did. Maybe I do. Maybe there's something different about me these days. Not that I was ever Mr. Popular. Or even wanted to be. But, I'd always at least scanned the room first to see if there was someone to sit with before—and now—now I'm just looking for an empty table.

I'm definitely not putting out too many welcoming vibes these days. Or any. In fact, I can't remember the last time I voluntarily talked to anyone who wasn't an Atwood or Theresa. I can't remember the last time I was even forced by circumstance to talk to someone who wasn't a teacher. Or fucking AJ.

I dunno. Maybe there's something in my demeanor. Maybe there's something in the way I look at people—or in the way I don't look at people. Maybe there's just something out there that's telling them all to back the fuck off. Because, that's how I'm feeling and that's what they're doing. So maybe—just maybe—I'm doing something fucking right for a change.

But, it's much more likely that I'm doing something wrong. Hell, even I know I'm doing everything wrong. I'm just so fucking zoned out all the damn time. I'm a fucking zombie. I mean—I think Catarina said "hi" in the hallway just before, but it didn't even register. Well, it registered. But by the time I'd thought to react—by the time I started to lift my hand in recognition—she'd already passed. And, by the time I'd turned to see where she'd gone, she was out of sight. It's like I'm living my life in slow motion and everyone else is moving at normal speed. It's just so fucking weird and it's beginning to creep me out, but I don't know what to do about it. I don't know how to make it stop.

Christ, there's something wrong with the knuckle. Not my knuckle. Well, yeah, my knuckle. There's something definitely wrong with my knuckle. I think I may have broken it when I swung at AJ. It would be a helluva lot better story if I'd'a connected with his ugly-assed ape of a face and caused the prick to bleed. Or at least to hurt. Even just a little. But I didn't. I was swinging wildly. Trying to connect with something. Trying to connect with anything. Which was completely my bad. Because—you know—mission accomplished and all that bullshit. I'd connected with something. I connected with the fucking floor. And the floor didn't give. Not one bit. So my knuckle had to. And now it's all swollen and purple. Well, purple with gray, black and yellow undertones. It hurts like a motherfucker and the pile of aspirin I took this morning is for shit.

I pass the dull charcoal tip of the pencil lightly over the drawing several more times trying to fix the knuckle. Adding shade where shade is needed. Pausing every few seconds to gingerly shut my hand and to study it—before picking the pencil back up again.

"_I said_, 'Did your hand look like that on Saturday?' "

It's Theresa. I didn't even know she was there. Behind my right shoulder. Looking at my fist and the drawing of my fist. Shit. I shut the notebook in one fluid motion. Or as fluid as I can manage when I'm caught completely off guard.

"Hey, Theresa."

"The hand." She says again, plopping her tray on the table, sitting next to me.

"What?"

"Your hand. Did it look like that on Saturday? I don't remember it looking like that on Saturday." She talks in staccato and mimes like she's signing. "Jesus, Atwood, don't get all Helen Keller on me."

"Sorry." I apologize without thinking. "Um, yeah. I guess." I shrug, squeezing the fist tight and sending a stab of pain shooting up the knuckle, through the hand and halfway up my forearm. For no other reason than to wake me up a little. For no other reason than to feel something. To feel anything. Because feeling pain is better than feeling nothing—and I'm feeling a whole lot of nothing these days.

"So—what? You don't do goodbyes anymore?"

"Sorry."

"No way, Ryan—we're not talking apologies. We're talking goodbyes. Don't get me wrong—you're fine with the apologies—you're a freaking _artist_ with the apologies—but, not so much so with the goodbyes. And you did the whole sorry thing on Friday. I only take one of those a week."

"It's Monday—new week?" I'm hoping she'll let me off the hook. I'm hoping she's not going to start something. Because, I'm just not up to a fucking argument right now.

"You're an ass."

"Okay." Easy enough. _Agreed._ Except—of course—that would take the kind of luck that doesn't reek of the Atwood curse.

"So, you just took off—again. Is that your new thing? 'Love 'em and leave 'em Ryan Atwood?' You're really not all that. You gotta know that—right? 'Cause, you know—you're short—and you've got kind of a big nose—and to tell you the truth, you smell kinda funky—a little like chicken." She exaggerates a sniff, pinches her nose closed and fans her hand in front of her face to give me the full effect.

"I had to get home. You were still asleep. I told your mom—"

"Yeah, well, if she's the only one you're concerned with—maybe next time you should get my mom to blow you."

_Jesus, Theresa. Give me a fucking break. I was already asleep when you came back out. I wasn't looking for a goddamn thing. _"I must have missed the part where I asked you to blow me."

"Whatever." She rolls her eyes. "You didn't exactly say 'no,' either. I was there. Remember?"

I raise my eyebrows and attempt a half-hearted grin. I guess she buys it, or at least she's faking like she does—because she flicks a french fry at me. I don't even think to try to catch it till it's already bounced off my shoulder and come to rest on the table.

"Where were you yesterday, anyway?"

"With Trey."

"You're sure spending a lot of time with Trey these days."

I shrug. It's true. I am spending a lot of time with my brother. But, I have to spend time with somebody if I'm avoiding home. Which I'm definitely doing. And at least when I'm with Trey I don't have to talk much. I don't have to talk at all. Because, he doesn't push me to explain one goddamned thing. Not that he has to. Because he already knows everything about anything that needs explaining—and he's not exactly one to want to talk about it much, either.

"So." She puts a fry to her lips, hesitates before biting into it. "I went by your house yesterday."

"Why?"

"To find you."

"And—"

"And, I met your mom's boyfriend. Sweet guy." Her voice is saccharine. She's trying to be coy, but all I can think is that she has no fucking clue. She has no fucking clue how stupid that is. Jesus, you'd think she'd have a fucking clue. Especially when she keeps telling me she knows what's going on. Especially when she's pretty well got that goddamned pegged.

"What'd he do?"

"Who—the boyfriend? Nothing. He was flirting—I think. I couldn't really tell—there's no chance he's palsied, is there?—because that might explain the strange tic."

She jerks her head to the side awkwardly a couple times in rapid succession and I know she's trying to get me to laugh, but I can't quite bring myself to do the funny. Not when it's about AJ. Because there's not one fucking thing that's funny about AJ. And Theresa shouldn't be anywhere near the guy. "Don't come by again." My tone is deadly serious—not that she's fucking getting it.

"Your house—you're joking—right? 'Cause I've been coming by your house since we were, what—nine? Suddenly, I'm not supposed to come by—what's going on with you, Ryan?"

"Nothing—it's just—he's just—I dunno." I sputter before giving up. "My mom's boyfriend—he's dangerous, is all."

"I can see that." She says—points an accusatory fry at my face, moves it in a circular motion to encompass the damage she sees.

"This isn't him. I already told you—I got into a fight with Trey." I don't care that she isn't buying a word of it. My response is automatic. My brother taught me well. He taught me the value of sticking to whatever story is already out there. Even if you had to make it up on the spot. Even if it isn't probable—or even possible. Don't get bogged down in the details. Don't waiver. Not ever. Not even if no one believes a word you say. Not even if everyone already knows it was your dad who beat you up last night, or that your mom's on a bender and hasn't come home in a couple of days, or that you're late to school because you're hung over and still a little bit drunk from the night before—or that the goon who's shacked up with your mom's kicking your ass on a regular basis. If you stick with whatever version of the story is already out there—if you don't embellish it—well, then you don't get caught in your own lies. It really is as simple as that.

Theresa regards me for a few seconds in silence before she finally harrumphs in exaggerated frustration. "We used to be best friends, Ryan." She sounds oddly sad. So maybe her frustration isn't as exaggerated as I thought. And I feel like a complete and utter shit. I just want to be left alone—but, I don't want to hurt her, either. I don't want her to hate me. I just want her to give me a little space. Because I like Theresa. And she likes me. But, I really need to be left alone right now. Not that I can tell her that.

"We're still best friends."

"Really? 'Cause that's not the vibe I'm getting here."

I force a grin. "You see anyone else around?"

"No. But, _I'm_ only here because I sat next to_ you_—you walked right by me three times last week to go sit by yourself—you don't wait for me after class anymore—you never even would'a noticed me today if I didn't hunt you down—and—well—you didn't exactly look like you were happy to see me just now."

"Sorry."

"There you go apologizing again. You're all about the apology. I'm not looking for an apology, Ryan."

__"Then—what—exactly—are you looking for, Theresa?" It comes out sharper than I intended and I immediately wish I could take it back. I feel like shit—especially since we both know what she wants. And because I know I can't give it to her. And for half a second, I hope she didn't take it in the way I intended it. But I can tell by the way she colors slightly, the way she looks away and the way she just suddenly looks so fucking _hurt_, that she knows exactly what I meant.

"I dunno—" She finally says. "How about an explanation?"

"For what?"

"For why you're never around. For why you're hanging out with Trey all the time—for why you're becoming just like him."

"Becoming just like Trey?"

"Yes."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means that you're skulking around like you're pissed off at everyone and everything—you're fighting all the time—you're skipping school—and when you even bother to show up, you fall asleep in half your classes—it's just—I dunno, Ryan—it's just not you—or, it didn't used to be you—it's Trey, maybe—but it's not you—you're not you."

"I'm a little distracted is all." Yeah, I know. It even sounds lame to me.

"That's the best you can come up with? You're a little _distracted_?"

"I guess—I mean—I dunno—it's complicated." Christ. Can't she just take the hint and leave me the fuck alone. I don't want to talk about it. I don't know how to make it any clearer without attacking her. And I don't want to attack her. I won't attack her.

"Yeah, and I'm sure I wouldn't understand. Because you're just so fucking deep, Ryan. It's not like I haven't known you since—when? Like forever."

"C'mon Theresa, I don't want to do this." _I can't fucking do this_. _Don't make me fucking do this._

"Do what—talk?"

"Fight."

"Really? 'Cause maybe you should tell that to Aldo. Because you sure looked like you wanted to fight when you busted his lip open a couple of weeks ago."

"Aldo's an asshole."

"And Brandon? Is Brandon an asshole, too?"

"Brandon hit me first."

"And Ty?"

"Ty smells like chicken." I offer her the best smile that I can muster in the hopes of diffusing this whole powder keg of a conversation before either of us say something we'll regret.

It's weak and Theresa's not going for it. "Well—then the two of you have a lot in common."

She bites her lip and hesitates a moment before she sucker-punches me. "Make it up to me Ryan—go to the dance with me." And she looks so goddamn wistful for a minute that I almost consider it. Except I can't. I can't go to the fucking dance with her. Because if I go to the dance with her, she'll think I'm her boyfriend. Which is what she wants me to be. And I can't. I just can't. Not that I don't want to. Jesus, she'd be my first choice if the option was even feasible. But it's not. Because I can't be anyone's fucking boyfriend right now. I just don't have it in me.

There's just too much going on in my fucked up life right now. I'm expending too much fucking energy just getting by day to day. And getting my mom by day to day. Because she's the one that really needs me right now. Theresa doesn't. Even though she thinks she does. But, she's got her mom—she's got Arturo. Mom's got nobody. She's got nobody but a fucked up prick of a boyfriend. And Trey. And me. And, her fucked up prick of a boyfriend won't let Trey come around. So, I know I'm not much—but I'm something. And I'm all she's got—she's my mom—so she's gotta come first. And I just don't have enough fucking energy to take care of her and anyone else.

"C'mon, Theresa, you know I don't do dances." I make my voice as soft and as plaintive as I can, in the hopes that she'll just—fucking—understand. But she doesn't. And I can't make her.

"Yeah—I know. You don't do a lot of things lately." Theresa's eyes narrow and she's spitting out her words. "You don't do goodbyes—you don't do smiles—you don't do jokes—you don't do conversation—just about the only thing you're doing these days is Maggie Cox." Her voice is raised and I don't have to look around to know that her last statement got the desired reaction from those who are tittering around us.

Theresa abruptly stands and picks up her tray. The food on it's mostly untouched. She pivots on her heel and walks away without looking back and by the time I think to call her back, she's gone. Which is great. It's just fucking great. Because, now I can officially add her to the long and growing list of people waiting in line to kick my ass. Along with Brandon Cox, of course. Which is just what I fucking need. Because that kid outweighs me by 50 pounds and has at least five inches on me. And, I guess my only consolation is that he won't get in the first punch in on me this time. Or—who the fuck am I kidding? He probably will. Because, I'm still moving in slow motion and the whole rest of the world is charging forward at full speed ahead.


End file.
